We lost our kids for an hour today. It was the longest hour I’ve had in years.

Just yesterday, I figured out how to rent two city bikes at once with one phone, meaning my whole family could now get bikes together with just our two devices. Although my kids are teens now—13 and 15—they don’t yet have their own phones, not because we’re Amish, but because the internet’s a world of iniquity, and I don’t really want that in my kids’ pockets—or hands.

We had our whole day planned out. We were going to bike 5km to the kids’ sports class, then walk to get lunch, before hitting drama class and biking home. Somewhere in there, I was going to visit a dentist to deal with a tooth ache.

None of that happened.

As we were biking down the road, the kids and I were pulling far ahead of my wife, who’s been suffering from nerve pain for years. Recently it’s been attacking her hip, so she had to take it slow. But darn it, she’s a trooper, and biking today was her own idea. I slowed down so she could catch up and we could enjoy the ride together, but the kids wanted to keep going.

“Take a right up here,” I told them from behind.

“Then what?” they shouted back.

“You know the way. It’s a straight shot from here, all the way to class.”

We’ve driven this route 100 times since moving to the city. I thought they knew the way. Perhaps what I should have told them is: “It’s a straight shot for about 4 kilometers from here, all the way to class” and “since we’re not in a car, it’ll feel longer than normal.”

Of course, I didn’t say these things. I didn’t know I needed to. I’ve been the driver so along, I don’t remember what it’s like to sit in the back seat and not pay attention to roads and cues. I don’t really remember what it’s like to get lost.

The kids shot out ahead of us, but I was unconcerned. By the time we hit the next stop-light, they were out of sight. Four kilometers later, my wife and I crossed the major road and pulled into the parking lot but didn’t see any rental bikes parked out front. I knew something was amiss.

“The kids kept going!” I yelled back to my wife, a sense of frustration in my voice. “You stay here. I’m going to bike ahead and catch them at the U-Turn.”

I biked ahead but didn’t see them. I biked around the U-Turn and backtracked to their friends’ apartment complex across the road where they meet several times per week. Nothing. I got in touch with my wife by phone, and she sounded a bit worried. I told her not to worry, that they’re around here somewhere, and I would keep riding.

For the next 40 minutes, I rode 8 kilometers hither and thither through this city of millions—my head on a swivel and my phone in hand. I stopped every so often to ask security guards if they’d seen two foreign-looking kids. I took side roads and biked halfway back to the house. Again, nothing.

All along, my mind was a mess. It began as frustration, of course.

How could the kids be so stupid!?

How could they be so un-aware!?

We’ve said it a hundred times, if you ever get lost, get directions to the place you know we’re all heading. If you ever get, lost borrow a phone!

Why they heck haven’t they even tried to call!?

About 30 minutes into it, though, my thoughts took a darker turn—not that thinking my own kids are “stupid” isn’t dark enough, of course! Like a light-switch, though, my thoughts flipped from “This is their fault” to “What if they’ve been kidnapped?” It was surreal.

Kidnappings have happened here before, so it’s not out of the question—though of course traffickers generally swipe infants from the streets not teens. But you can see how this moment of oblivion was messing with my thoughts.

As Dad, I also immediately swore vengeance against anyone who could do such a thing—knowing full well that “‘Vengeance is mine: I will repay,’ says the LORD,” not Dad. I even (poorly) justified this violent reaction from a Christian perspective: if I had a moment to speak to the kidnappers floating somewhere in the ether, I’d evangelize. “Come to Jesus now. You’ve still got time, because the moment I find you…”

I met my wife at the friends’ apartment complex, where her app (incorrectly) said our son’s bike was parked, and then we headed back to class to think things through. My wife got caught at a stop light, but the moment I parked my bike, she called me tearfully. “They’re at the house! They didn’t know where the class was, so they went home. They asked three different people if they could use their phones to call us, but no one would let them! The security guard at our house finally let them!”

I was furious. It was relief and joy all swirled about in a mixture of adrenaline and anger—what kind of person wouldn’t let my daughter use her phone to call her mom!? I wanted to punch someone. I wanted to go home.

We called a cab and met the kids at our place ten minutes later, and it was one of those moments in parenting where you want both to hug your kids and scold them at the same. I snapped at them once while we were walking back to lock the bike they’d abandoned, and I immediately felt horrible. They’d been scolded enough. The experience was as crappy for them as it was for us.

We reviewed our family rules for situations like this. They did the second-best thing by going home, and they did well to try to call us. I still struggle with the selfish strangers who wouldn’t help a 13yo girl asking for help, but that’s some bitterness I need to root out of my heart.

And that’s one of the lessons I’m learning from this experience. Also that I need a refresher on how my sense of vengeance should mesh with God’s; that we need to rehash our own family-emergency rules; and that it might be time for my kids to get their own phones—for emergencies.

That last one’s the hardest. There really is a world of iniquity out there. We know we can’t prevent our kids from ever facing it, but we can certainly prepare them to face it. And with God’s help, we can prepare them to face it well.

But still…do they really need their own phones?

©2026 E.T.